CHAPTER 36
So close.
I came so
close.
I can still feel the
knife in my hand as I chased her through the night. My hand throbs
from where she stabbed me; the cuts upon my skin are shallow and
stinging from breaking the window of her door.
How had I let her
escape when I was so close . . . ?
It was because of the
man she was with, not her husband, but the reporter! I’d sensed him
through her mind, the one she thinks of as “the truth seeker.” It
was easy enough to identify him and find out where he works, where
he lives . . . all compliments of the library
computers.
At first I thought I’d
been recognized, but my disguise and the librarian’s obvious myopia
allowed me free access.
But my failure to kill
Lorelei and her growing bastard is an onus, one I must throw
off.
Her smell is
overpowering. A stench that burns through my nostrils and burrows
deep in my soul. There are more of them now . . . The one who got
away . . . Becca . . . is back, her child in tow. I feel her and
know she is afraid.
Good. This is good.
They, too, must be destroyed. . . .
It took hour upon hour
to make my way back to the bait shop and the rat’s den where I
reside, but I’m here. I’m back. And there is a vehicle I can
“borrow,” one never used and parked near the boat landing, owned by
that blind old fool Carter. . . . It’s parked far from the security
lights. . . . I only have to wait until darkness falls. . .
.
A headache pounds
behind my eyes and my stomach rumbles, reminding me it’s been hours
since I’ve eaten. The money I found in both Cosmo’s wallet and the
van driver’s jacket is nearly gone. . . . I will need
more.
My mind wanders back to
that reporter. He wants to fornicate with Lorelei. My fists clench.
Fornicate with the witch whose seed is already growing inside
her!
I need to kill her . .
. kill them all. . . .
My thoughts are
scattered . . . falling away, and I have to work to snatch them
back, pull them together. I breathe deeply, but here, locked in my
soiled room over the bait shop, I feel confined and weak. . . . I
find the hilt of the butcher knife, her knife, and run my fingers along its smooth
shaft.
Now, in my mind’s eye,
I can see them, Satan’s whores, gathered together, plotting,
scheming, thinking they can outwit me. . . .
Their images run
together.
Ashen hair . .
.
Steely blue eyes . .
.
Sharp little chins . .
.
Rosebud lips that curl
back to reveal tiny, needlelike fangs . . . cat’s teeth . .
.
As ever, they hurl
their childish taunts and razor-sharp insults at
me:
“Bastard!” one says
with a high-pitched giggle.
“Idiot!” another
cackles, delight sparking in her blue, blue eyes. She feels naughty
and oh, so smug.
“Cretin!” another
rejoins to twitter at how clever she is.
“Changeling!” they cry
in unison, as a chorus that resounds in my head, echoing with their
wicked laughter. “Changeling! Changeling! Changeling!” Their
malicious glee sends them into uproarious gales of hurtful
laughter, and I run, faster and faster, away from them, along the
ridge over the sea, to the cabins . . . and the lighthouse beyond.
. . .
The call of a seagull
brings me back to this, my wreck of a room reeking of fish and
diesel. My hands are knotted in the grimy folds of the stolen coat
on which I am lying. I stare out the cobwebbed window high overhead
and see a seagull whirling in the cerulean sky.
It’s time to end
this.
Forever.
“Ssssissttters,” I
hiss, but the effort is weak and my own words ricochet back to me,
bouncing through my brain. Lorelei has put up a wall against me,
just as Catherine has secured the walls around Siren Song. . .
.
But I will get through.
I have a plan. . . .
I need to go to the
sea.
To feel the caress of
the salt air and hear the roar of waves thundering against the
shore in my heart.
I will be
restored.
I will be
strong.
And I will
kill.
I feel a thrill at
this, a sizzle of anticipation, and I run my finger along the
knife’s long blade. A line of scarlet blooms along my fingertip,
which I examine carefully, then suck the wound, tasting the salt of
my own blood.
Yes, yes. It’s time. .
. .
Laura and Becca walked along an
overgrown path where sunlight, piercing the lacy branches overhead,
dappled the ground. Beneath their feet curls of mist rose from the
damp forest floor and through the trees; glinting along the horizon
was the steely Pacific Ocean. Becca carried Rachel, and the little
girl eyed her surroundings suspiciously, though she didn’t say a
word.
In the past few hours, Laura had become
reacquainted with most of her sisters again and gotten to know
Becca, whose name had only been whispered while she was growing up.
More than that, she’d been able to hold Rachel, even scaring up a
smile on the little girl’s face. To think that Justice would want
to harm any of them, especially this innocent child, was
incomprehensible.
Before she and Becca had started their
walk through the grounds of Siren Song, she’d left her cell phone
number with Catherine, in case they needed to get in touch. Just to
ensure her aunt didn’t misplace the number, she’d given it to
Isadora as well.
Catherine hadn’t written it
down.
Isadora had.
“Here it is,” Laura finally said when
she spied the short fence that surrounded the small private
cemetery on the eastern side of the lodge. As Catherine had told
them, their earliest relatives rested here, those who died before
the turn of the last century. The graveyard
was all but forgotten by everyone except those who lived at Siren
Song. Hidden deep in the old growth, high on a ledge, with a
rickety fence covered with berry vines and offering little barrier,
the cemetery boasted only a smattering of tombstones, marble
monoliths or slabs that had grown gray and had disintegrated over
time, the names and dates blurred with dirt. There were small,
plain crosses and more elaborate stones decorated with angels or
rings or flowers, even the Bible.
“I’m just amazed I’m finally inside,”
Becca said, picking her way through a winding blackberry vine that
nearly covered the gate. “The sound of the ocean is closer
here.”
“Just your imagination.”
“Peony Jane,” she said aloud, reading
the small headstone. “Darling daughter, birth March seventeenth,
eighteen seventy-three, died October thirty-first, eighteen
seventy-five.” She held tight to her own little girl and said, “A
child. How awful.”
“The worst.” Laura wended through the
markers, some decorated with crosses or angels or an open Bible,
and the smaller headstones, indicating the plots of children who
had passed in an earlier century.
“Here it is,” she said as she reached
the moss-covered plot where Mary was buried. The headstone, that of
an angel looking down, wings folded, was chipped and blackened;
part of one wing, cracked. The inscription was simple: MARY RUTLEDGE BEEMAN, LOVING
MOTHER, then the dates of her birth and death.
“I hardly remember her,” Laura
admitted. “I was about ten but the memories I have are blurry and
I’m not sure if they’re real or dreams or even something someone
told me about that I turned into memory.”
“I never knew her,” Becca said
softly.
Of course she hadn’t. Becca had been
adopted as a baby and had grown up in a “normal” family and
attended St. Elizabeth’s Catholic School in Portland. She’d been
unaware of Siren Song, of the old lodge of a house, of the
surrounding walls, of this very cemetery until just
recently.
“Why are there no public records of her
birth and death?” Becca asked.
“Because everything here is a
secret.”
“Or a lie,” Becca said, staring down at
the final resting place of their mother. “All we know is what
Catherine deigns to tell us and the haphazard ramblings in that
book by someone named Smythe. Who’s to say if it’s accurate, or
even partially true? All we really know is that we’re related, that
mostly only women survive, and that all of us now, if Catherine’s
correct, including Rachel, have some telepathic gift.” She shook
her head and sighed. “And then there’s Justice
Turnbull.”
Laura glanced at Rachel, the girl’s
eyes round as she squirmed in her mother’s arms. “And then there’s
Justice,” she repeated.
“I wish there was some way to find him,
to catch him . . . to . . .”
“Kill him?” Laura asked and felt a
frisson of fear touch the back of her neck. She remembered how he’d
chased her, how intent he’d been on destroying her, the feel of him
so close. . . . The sound of the ocean’s roar reached her
ears.
“He’s planning to kill us. All of us.
Including . . .” She stopped herself and looked away. Laura
understood that Becca was speaking about her child, and she thought
of her own and how Justice wanted nothing more than to snuff out
her own child’s life before she was even born.
Becca’s gaze was troubled, but she
stated passionately, “I would do anything to save my child,
Lorelei. Anything. And if it means going up
against Justice and taking him down, then so be it.” The set of her
jaw was determined; her lips flattened fiercely. She meant
it.
A squirrel chattered from somewhere in
the higher branches, and at that moment, Laura heard Justice’s
voice. That horrid sibilant rasp seeming to slide like snakes
through the surrounding trees and into her brain.
Ssssisstersss.
Plural.
Damn. He knew that Becca was near her,
and though his voice was weaker than she remembered, she closed her
eyes and pushed up the wall around her mind.
“Laura?” Becca’s voice came to her as
if from a long distance. “Hey! Laura!” Sharper now.
Laura blinked and found her sister
staring at her. Becca’s eyes were round with worry as she touched
Laura’s shoulder. “For a second, I thought . . .” She didn’t finish
the sentence.
“He just tried to contact
me.”
“What?”
“I think he knows that you and Rachel
are here.”
“Oh, God.” Becca’s face
paled.
“You have to leave. Go far away.” Laura
was insistent. “Take Rachel back to Laurelton, somewhere safe.
Somewhere Justice doesn’t know about. He won’t go there, at least
not until he’s dealt with me. He’ll be looking for me
first.”
He smells them when
they’re pregnant.
“I can’t just let you face
him.”
“I won’t. The police will handle it.
I’ll be safe,” she said firmly. “You have visions. I hear him. You
can call me anytime, but really, it’s best if you leave.” She
glanced around the cemetery and beyond. Even the walls of Siren
Song weren’t strong enough. “It would be best. For you and for
Rachel.”
Becca seemed about to argue, but her
daughter started to squirm and fuss.
“Let me deal with him,” Laura told
her.
“I think it’s better if we stand
together,” Becca said, but at that moment Rachel, tired of being
hauled around, cried, “Down!” Laura’s gaze skated to her niece,
then returned to Becca. The unspoken question—how would you feel if
something happened to her?—filled the silent space between
them.
Laura said softly but strongly, “You
know what he can do. You’ve seen it firsthand. So, please, leave.
I’ll keep in contact with you. Promise. But you have to go home. Or
somewhere very far from here.”
“Down, Mommy!” Rachel
insisted.
“We’re going back now, honey,” Becca
said and started walking swiftly out of the cemetery, Rachel
squirming in her arms. Only when they were in the clearing again
did she turn to Laura. “Okay,” she said, “but you have to keep in
contact with me. You’ve got my phone number.”
“I will,” Laura promised.
They saw Hudson and Harrison, both
still waiting outside the gate. Becca headed that way, and Laura
gave Harrison a high sign, signaling that she was going back inside
to say good-bye to Catherine and her sisters but would be out
soon.
She vowed inwardly that she would find
a way to thwart Justice. That he wouldn’t stop hunting them until
they were all dead was a foregone conclusion, and it was a miracle
that, so far, since his escape, no one associated with the Colony
had been harmed.
But it was only a matter of
time.
Unless she got the better of the
bastard.
“I don’t like us being separated,”
Harrison said as he pulled into the employee lot at Ocean Park
Hospital. Laura’s Outback was where she’d parked it the day before,
and in broad daylight nothing appeared sinister.
“I’m just going inside and
straightening things out with my supervisor,” she insisted and
placed a hand over his, and he remembered how close he’d come to
making love to her. “I’ll meet you back at my house and tell you
all about my family.”
“You better.”
She glanced at her watch and frowned.
He noticed then the dark circles under her eyes, how white her skin
had become. “The glass guy is gonna be there in less than an
hour.”
“Fine.” Harrison took the hint. “I’ll
meet him.”
“I’ll be there soon.” She reached for
the door handle, but he caught her wrist.
“You’re okay?”
She laughed without humor, and her
gaze, when it found his, was troubled. “What do you
think?”
“We’ll get through this,” he
promised.
“One way or another,” she said, then
leaned forward and kissed him. Her lips were warm and supple, and
he drew her into his arms, sliding his tongue between her lips and
feeling his blood temperature become elevated.
“Hurry back,” he said and she actually
smiled.
“I will.”
Then she drew away and was out the
door, hurrying toward the front doors of Ocean Park.
Once he saw that she was inside,
Harrison drove out of the parking lot to the highway. He’d spent
most of the morning pacing outside the gates of Siren Song, getting
to know the rancher Hudson Walker, husband to one of Laura’s half
sisters, and certain that somehow, someway, Justice Turnbull would
know that Laura was inside. He couldn’t shake the feeling that
somehow Turnbull would find her and harm her. Hudson Walker
couldn’t have agreed more. He’d expected the rancher from Laurelton
to scoff at his anxiety, but that hadn’t been the case. Hudson,
too, was worried, had seen close hand what damage the maniac could
wreak, and wanted no part of it.
Hudson had driven to Siren Song under
protest; he wanted his wife and child as far from Justice Turnbull
as possible. But Becca had been insistent, and Hudson had agreed,
only if he came with her. He admitted that his wife could be
“mule-headed” but didn’t have to explain any further. Harrison knew
firsthand how stubborn a woman from the Colony could
be.
Which was odd, he thought as he drove
through the S curves high above the Pacific. The ocean was calmer
today, sunlight shimmering on the shifting water, but along the
horizon he noticed a dark swelling, clouds rolling inland and
promising another storm.
Harrison had known Laura—Lorelei—less
than a week, and yet there was something about her that touched a
part of him he hadn’t known existed, something about it that seemed
emotionally dangerous in its own right.
The house was just as they’d left it.
Quiet. Secluded. Too secluded, he decided as
he found his tool belt in the trunk and, using her key, began
cleaning up, then working on the lock. The repairman for the glass
window showed up about forty-five minutes later, surveyed the
damage, and shook his head.
“It’s gonna need a little more work
than I thought,” he said. “The sash is busted, so it’ll cost ya
about the same to fix as a new window.” He pointed to the area that
would have held the pane of glass in place, his finger running
along the broken piece of wood.
“Just fix it so that it’s secure,”
Harrison said, and the guy got to work. While the window was being
replaced, Harrison finished with the lock on the back door and
double-checked every window latch in the house. He figured the
landlord wouldn’t mind the changes, and it really was too damned
bad if he did.
Laura straightened things out with the
shift manager by promising to work a double tonight and tomorrow
morning. The woman was still a little miffed but turned her
attention to the coming week’s schedule and made the necessary
adjustments.
It hadn’t been as rough a meeting as
Laura had expected, yet she still felt a little off, not quite
right. Just as she had all day. She blamed her malaise on the
events of the last week, her brush with Justice, the emotional
highs and lows of visiting Siren Song. Her pregnancy also was a
factor, as were her conflicted feelings for Harrison.
She needed to tell him about the baby.
Come clean. She remembered kissing him and wanting so much
more.
“Laura!”
She was walking toward the lobby when
she heard Byron’s voice seeming to boom down the
hallway.
Inwardly groaning, she turned and saw
him, dressed not in scrubs, but slacks, jacket, and open-necked
shirt, as he strode toward her. The expression on his face was
accusatory, his jaw so hard, a muscle was working overtime beneath
his chin.
“What happened?” he demanded almost
angrily.
She thought of everything she’d been
through in the past few days. Had he heard Justice had attacked
her? That her home had been broken into? That she was spending a
lot of time with Harrison?
“You didn’t return for your shift last
night, and the damned shift nurse called me.
She wanted to know where you were, said you’d abandoned your
patients—”
“She didn’t say that,” Laura cut in,
too tired of his BS to listen to another word. “I had the shift
covered and she knew it.”
“But why?”
“I was with the sheriff’s department.
Explaining that the house had been broken into, that Justice
Turnbull had tried to kill me.”
“What?” All the wind was suddenly out
of his sails. “Turnbull’s after you? Why?” he asked; then his
expression darkened. “Because you’re part of that
Colony.”
“You knew?”
“Suspected,” Byron snapped. “My God, I
can’t believe this. You’re a professional and I’m a doctor. I can’t
. . . defend . . . all of that.”
“We’re divorced,
remember?”
His lips tightened. “You’re still
connected to me, Laura. And if you’re carrying my child, then
things are even stickier. And, for the record, you even still have
my last name. So be careful. Some people think we’re still
married!”
“Then make sure you let them know we’re
divorced. Wouldn’t want to tarnish your rep.” She was shaking her
head as his cell phone beeped and he glanced down at the number.
“Me being from the cult and all.”